


Dead Man's Float

by holyfudgemonkeys (erraticallyinspired)



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: (but not too slow), (just a bit), Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Canon-Typical Violence, Dark Will Graham, Hannibal and Will don't actually meet and interact until ch3, Hannibal's still a cannibal, I'll up the rating if I add any, M/M, MINOR MENTIONS OF SUICIDAL THOUGHTS IN PROLOGUE, Several OCs in prologue, Slow Burn, Will doesn't work for the FBI, Will's still a cop, a few more during the course of the story but they aren't that important, also an OC being worried that a character is suicidal, also possibly from the book since I'm reading it now, might be smut later but I'm not sure, occasional drowning metaphors, so so many water metaphors, use of quotes from the show
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-14
Updated: 2015-04-19
Packaged: 2018-03-12 07:41:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 16,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3349112
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/erraticallyinspired/pseuds/holyfudgemonkeys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><em>Sometimes the feelings rise, lapping at his ankles and creeping up until they're neck-deep. He's learned to tread water. He can breathe and pace himself to last until he can touch the ground again. He </em>was<em> treading water, he still </em>is<em> treading water, but the water is a wave now, and it's going to engulf him soon enough. </em></p>
<p><em>In the split seconds before impact, two options present themselves: kick frantically and hope to stop it from consuming him, or </em>let<em> it. </em></p>
<p>  <em>In another universe, Will thinks he would have kicked.</em></p>
<p> <br/>AU where Will isn't stabbed as badly pre-series and is still a cop, not a teacher. </p>
<p>(Chapter 1 will begin with Fromage and follow the canon timeline from then on)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Brave Cop Ends Terror

**Author's Note:**

> **I'm putting a timeline for the prologue down in the notes at the end just in case anyone's confused!** You can also ask me any questions you have at my tumblr: holyfudgemonkeys.tumblr.com
> 
> (Also, if anyone has read any of my other fics, I'm sorry for not updating in forever, but school got in the way, and my interest in TW was already waning a year ago, so I haven't even seen past 3A. It'll be until the summer for any updates on those if I ever get around to it.)

#### Prologue.

He feels the desperation before he sees the knife. It saturates the air, creeps along his skin, leaves him jittery and short-breathed. _Got to get out, got to get out,_ it screeches in his ears. _They're coming, I don't want to go, oh God, what do I do?_ He tries to steady himself, but even with a white-knuckled grip, his firearm will not stop shaking. _Nowhere to hide, got to get out._

A shock of purple comes darting around the corner, a glint of metal in an outstretched arm catches his eye.

Instead of squeezing, his trigger finger tenses, immobile, and although he can't see for sure, he knows the killer's fingers are just as stiff around the smooth handle of the knife. _I don't want to die._ Determination twitches through his fingers, but panic stays them. _Please don't shoot._ He can feel his partner glance at him from across the room, worried, _what's going on, Will, dammit?_ But his own gaze is locked on the end of the hallway. Will Graham is, for the first time in his (admittedly short) career, completely overwhelmed.

Will is an empath. He knows it, his father knew it, and even his boss knows the basics: he can feel out the criminals, and it makes him a damn good officer. 

But this is too much. Sometimes the feelings rise, lapping at his ankles and creeping up until they're neck-deep. He's learned to tread water. He can breathe and pace himself to last until he can touch the ground again. He _was_ treading water, he still _is_ treading water, but the water is a wave now, and it's going to engulf him soon enough. 

In the split seconds before impact, two options present themselves: kick frantically and hope to stop it from consuming him, or _let it._

In another universe, Will thinks he would have kicked.

The knife still slices into him, a long crooked line down his arm, but the paramedics tell him he'll regain full motion quickly enough. His partner stands next to him, relieved, as they wheel away the body bag. 

 

He gets stitches and painkillers at the hospital and a blinking answering machine at home courtesy of Chief Roberts. The message was left long before he was released. _I don't want to see you for at least a week. Take some time off, Graham, and get your head on straight,_ it says. _Don't worry about the investigation. Looks pretty cut and dry._ It does. The number of shots is excessive (four in quick succession), but his partner, Lou, vouches for him, and even the backup officers saw how fast Morgan Tyler appeared. The knife has Will's blood and the Tyler's fingerprints on it. There will be a full investigation, but only because of how publicized it is. Will rubs at his eyes with a tired hand. They'd already given him something at the hospital before sending him home in Lou's car, so he falls into bed with no more than a glance to the booze cabinet.

_Brave Cop Ends Terror_ , the headline reads in the morning. No one blames him. The dead man murdered seven people, two of them children, over the last two months. Tears are shed, but not for Will's victim; the families of the seven are trying to move on now. Everyone is relieved. 

He calls the Chief while waiting for the toaster to pop and formally takes a good deal of his vacation time, because _he_ should be relieved, too. All he did was his job. _Got to get out, got to get out._ His aim was good, textbook quality even. _It was you or me, Officer._ A murderer is off the streets. _You enjoyed it, didn't you, Officer?_ He might even get some kind of award for it, Roberts tells him. _Made you feel powerful, didn't it, Officer?_

His lungs are swimming, his head is filled with murder, and his stomach refuses the first piece of toast. When he tries again, it's with small bites. The painkillers sit on the counter untouched. He doesn't want to get addicted, and there's not enough in his stomach anyway. 

He goes for the booze instead. Three fingers of whiskey isn't enough to make it all go away, and after another useless three, he's cursing policy; policy has his gun in an evidence locker for now. Maybe it's for the best.

 

The next morning he goes to the library. A few college students shuffle through the stacks as he walks to the old computers in the back. They aren't useful for much other than looking through the catalog, but he has a computer at home for the internet. Twenty minutes of searching and filtering yields three books, which he finds quickly enough, and when no one bothers him as he looks, he's grateful.

"Aren't you that cop?" the teen at the desk says as Will sets the books onto the counter. "Officer Grim or something?"

He's not that interested, really, but the boredom that was suffocating Will for the last half an hour finally abates some. "Graham," he mutters and pulls his wallet out of his pocket. His library card is old, unused, but it should still work. 

"Cool," the boy says, shrugging. He scans the card and then the first book - a beginner's meditation guide. "This one's good for a week." The other two are thicker and mustier. They're the only two books in the catalog that reference eidetic memory and empathy. The boy takes a look at them and taps the covers. "These, three days."

The small receipt printer next to the scanner screeches as it spits out the due date slips. _Got to get out, got to get out._ Will's fingers crease the leather of his wallet. 

"How'd it feel?" 

The sharp sting of curiosity skates across his neck as the boy leisurely tucks the slips into the book covers. Will ignores it. _Good; right, Officer?_

"Killing somebody, I mean. Even if you had to do it," the boy continues, glancing at Will's pinched face. He pushes the books and the card towards the older man. "It feels that bad?"

The card is stuffed back into his wallet and then into his pocket. "It's one of the ugliest things in the world," he grits out, the books under his arm, and walks away.

 

The meditation book makes it sound easy. _Sit tall._ He grabs an old ratty pillow off the couch and sits on it on the floor. Not hard at all. It isn't as comfortable as he hoped, but he straightens up and moves to the next step anyway. _Relax your body._ Great. Tyler's paranoia is still circling through his veins, and his neck is tense enough to ache. He leaves the pillow on the floor when he goes to the kitchen to make a quick sandwich, because, for the painkillers to work their magic without hurting him, something needs to be in his stomach. 

He tries again a quarter hour later. His body is pliant from the medicine, his stomach full from the sandwich. One limb at a time relaxes slowly and reluctantly, but his jaw and shoulders are still tense. "It's not that damn hard," he mutters. "C'mon." 

_You liked killing me, Officer._

Will grinds his teeth.

_Just admit it._

The bases of his palms press into his eyes. Foreign panic engulfs his head, and he's gasping for air as he treads water with exhausted limbs. "Leave me alone."

_Admit it._

"Fuck off."

_C'mon, Officer._

Jolting up, Will kicks the pillow aside. "Fine! I liked it." His kicks grow weaker. He lets it happen, lets his head sink below the water. Morgan Tyler surrounds him, becomes him, and they're back in the dark house. " _I don't want to die,_ " he mocks. " _Please don't shoot!_ " His back straightens. This cruelty in his tone, in the way he holds himself is all Morgan Tyler. Morgan Tyler enjoyed carving into his victims slowly, and Will regrets not using more bullets. _I move forward and grab my prey barehanded. I am superior, I need no weapon. I knock them to the ground and leave the bloodstain for the cops to find. Dragging them back to my car is easy. I have killed so many already. They won't catch me. **Got to get out, got to get out.** They can't catch me. _

He grabs him ( _himself?_ ) by the shoulder, ignoring the bloody knife, and yanks him forward, enjoys how he stumbles with the force. A kick to the back of the knees has him on the ground. He plants his foot beneath tense shoulders, aims, and unloads the clip without looking down. He doesn't want to see which face it wears. _My prey is imaginary. I am not. I am Officer Will Graham, and this is my design._

Silence. 

Collapsing onto the couch, he sleeps a dreamless sleep there. 

 

He can still feel him there in the morning, but Morgan Tyler doesn't say a word, not even when he and Lou are promoted. 

 

#### One Year Later.

"I'm not so sure the victim knew the killer," Lou mutters, staring at the intact door and fiddling with his badge like he always does when he thinks. There are no signs of forced entry -- just like the last two murders. "Either our killer gets around, or he's getting in another way." 

Will glances around the room. It's swarming with officers, but he takes a deep breath, closes his eyes, and lets it out, sinking into the killer. _My prey works from home. I stalk them, learn their schedule, but they do not suspect me. I am a prospective customer; they welcome me. I buy something small to be polite and then ask to use the bathroom._ The killing is brutal ( _I knock over a chair and steady myself carefully, feet shoulder-width apart, in preparation. My prey comes to check the noise, and I swing my bat. Again, again._ ), but he allows himself to slowly become aware of his surroundings; officers further in the room chatter about the case, about their families, and their radios crackle with each outside exchange. _I'm breathing in, I'm breathing out, I'm Officer Will Graham, it's 10:20 in the morning, and I'm at a crime scene._

"Will?" 

"Has anyone fingerprinted the bathroom window?" ( _Blood and brain spray hits my clothes and face, but the shower is free and so are the washer and dryer. No one knows I am here. This is my design._ ) "Or the laundry room?" 

"You're a weird one, Will," Lou says, shaking his head, and turns to the rest of the room. "Hey, we got anybody checking the bath and laundry rooms?" 

Will doesn't wait to hear the answer. A gleeful violence is thrumming through his veins, and only the absence of a bat ( _my favorite weapon, so easy to hide, so easy to smash_ ) keeps him from lashing out at his peers, though he can imagine it. Lou would be the first to go, being so close in proximity, and the others would startle and hesitate to pull out their guns. He wouldn't get out, but it would feel _so good._ Fresh air helps to push the killer out. _I'm Will Graham, twenty-seven years old, in New Orleans, Louisiana, and I'm an officer of the law_. Somebody stands next to him. He knows without looking that it's Lou. 

"He's not ugly. Or angry, or jealous. He just _likes it_ ," he hisses, pushing his glasses up to press his hand against his eyes. 

"The new kid went a little above and beyond, thinks he found some hair in the shower drain that doesn't belong to the victim," Lou says. "We'll catch him, Will." 

It doesn't matter if they catch him or not. Not really. For Will, he'll always be in his head along with Tyler and the others that came after him. 

He follows Lou back into the house. 

 

#### Six Years Later.

_Nine years_ , he thinks as he goes for the booze cabinet. _Nine goddamned years._ He knows he's been lucky; in all his time on the force he's only had one partner, and Lou could always handle his quirks and bring him back when the crime scenes were too bad. He didn't give a shit that Will rarely met his eyes or that he could be cold sometimes. 

Will doesn't blame Lou for dying. He doesn't blame himself for not seeing the shot coming. He does blame himself for keeping his head above water. 

Jennifer Rooking, twenty-four, killed three people, including Lou Peters. They had known it was a woman, that she was about 5'4" and had light brown hair. They hadn't understood why she was killing, and with so, _so_ many killers already lurking in the back of his head, Will didn't wanted to invite her in. Lou had understood. 

The lock had been busted after a particularly nasty kidnapping case, so he swings the cabinet open and goes straight for the whiskey, no glass, no ice. 

When Chief Roberts calls to check up on him, he takes the next few days off in vacation time and falls into bed in his bloodstained clothes, jacket and all. 

 

"Graham!" 

Nine years at the New Orleans P.D. has etched that voice and knock into his head, so he sits up and gets to his feet, stripping off his jacket and outer shirt as he makes his way to the door. A long, stiff patch of Lou's blood on his pants scratches unpleasantly against his knee. 

"Chief," he mutters when the door is open. With a terse wave of his hand, Will shuffles towards the kitchen, leaving his boss to come in or stay out. 

"Jesus, Graham, you couldn't have changed before going to bed?" 

The coffee machine hums. "It's laundry day." 

"At least take off the damn pants. Your pasty legs won't offend me." 

"Yes, sir," he spits out and strips down to his boxers right then and there. He's too hungover to give a shit. 

"I need to know if you're coming back to work." 

"I took two days vacation time." 

"You know what I meant. Look, I'm just trying to be careful with you. I don't want to break you here. Is that what's happened? Did Peters' death break you? Some people don't bounce back from that, Graham. No one would blame you if you quit." 

"I'm not quitting." He fills two chipped mugs with coffee and jams some bread into the toaster. "I'm a cop. I've been a cop for nine years. Detective for the last six. What else am I going to do? Fix boat motors like my father?" Coffee sloshes over the side of the mugs as he slams them down on the table. " _Sure_ , yeah, I'm broken. But do you have anyone that does what I do better unbroken than I do broken?" 

Roberts ignores the mugs, the mess. "Graham," he warns. 

"You _don't_ ," Will says. "I took two days off. I'll be back Tuesday, we'll find Jennifer Rooking, and you'll assign me a new partner." 

The toast pops. 

"You'll take a week off. _At least._ We'll find Jennifer Rooking before you come back, and you'll see a therapist before you get a new partner." 

"A therapist?" 

"We just lost a good man. We don't need to lose another one for being reckless." 

"So it isn't a suggestion." 

"No. A suggestion would be that you leave the department." 

Will's knuckles go white against the mug handle. 

"Now, just hear me out, Graham," Roberts says, finally taking a sip of the black coffee. "I'm not saying you quit being a cop. But maybe you need some new scenery. Don't think I haven't seen the shit you've put yourself through in the last seven years." 

Seven years since Morgan Tyler. Seven years since Will stopped fighting his empathy, started diving headfirst into murder. He grits his teeth. 

"I've got a friend. Old partner of mine. He's the Chief of Police up in Baltimore. They're a little short-staffed right now, could use an officer who already knows how it works." 

"And I'm just supposed to, what?" he says, finally tossing the toast onto a plate. "Get an apartment there, crack a few jokes, offer to make the coffee in the mornings? My life is _here._ " He smears butter on the toast with jerky movements. 

"Chief Sanders can get you set up. At least until you get on your feet." 

"I'm already on my feet. _Here._ " 

"Just think about it, Graham. Let me know in a week. It'll only take a call, and then you'll have another few weeks to get ready to go." 

They both know he'll take it. Lou's blood is still under his fingernails, and he remembers how it felt leaking out between his fingers when he tried to stem it. His shirt is soaked with sweat, his knees are red, and he knows he can't do it anymore. Not in New Orleans. 

 

He begins packing after the funeral. 

 

When he first arrives, most of the department dislikes him. He's the new officer who used to be a detective, and what would make a person take a demotion like that? Two months later, the whole department is in a frenzy, and Will feels like laughing; Out of the frying pan and into the fucking fire. 

_Chesapeake Ripper Strikes Again!_

_Chesapeake Ripper Back in Action?_

_FBI on the Case: Who Will the Ripper Kill Next?_

His new partner, Roper, tells him they won't be too involved, especially since the two of them aren't detectives. "The FBI's got a lock on this one. We might be called in as backup. A formality. But they run the show." 

It's fine with Will. The pay cut doesn't bother him -- not when it means he can stay uninvolved. He's getting to know the cops (he sticks to last names this time and no one begrudges him that), and he doesn't want another murderer in his head ( _yet_ ). Two men are killed, missing organs and stabbed with many different weapons. Will patrols the streets with Roper. A trainee from the FBI goes missing. He spends his time searching alleys and checking 911 calls. If the crime scene photos cross his desk, he closes the folder and walks away, because Will is not ready for the water, does not want it to rise. Chief Sanders respects him and his distance, and Will settles into Officer Will Graham of the Baltimore P.D., Greg Roper's partner. 


	2. Lost Boys Found!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Ma'am, I'm Officer Roper, and this is Officer Graham." Roper talks to her like he would a child, but she's too terrified to notice. "Can you tell us what happened?"
> 
> She nods a few times. "I came in to set up -- we're supposed to have a concert tonight, I guess we'll have to cancel that, um -- and I saw him, it," she stutters out, her face paling even more before she continues in a whisper, "the body, There's a body. Douglas Wilson. Um, he's, he was a trombonist with the Metropolitan Orchestra."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I lied. This chapter doesn't start with Fromage (it was supposed to... whoops!). It actually starts a few days before Budge kills the trombonist, and the events of Fromage don't start until the last third of the chapter. (Good thing I tagged this as slow burn; it looks like Will and Hannibal won't meet until the beginning of chapter three...)

### Two Years Later

They stop at a Starbucks for coffee. It isn't a part of their routine -- especially not while on duty -- but their combined shift technically does not start for another three minutes, and neither Roper nor Will wanted to take the time to get their coffee at the station. Not with Sanders flipping out on any officer who stood still too long. Not with the Ripper killing again. 

It's worth the extra few bucks to stay away, even to two frugal officers like Will and his partner. 

From his place in the driver's seat, he sees and nods at a retired officer, now a part-time security guard for one of the colleges in the city. Ex-Officer Robb nods back at him but does not walk past the patrol car, slipping instead into the passenger seat after the door is unlocked. Will feels more comfortable with the man now than he did a year ago. Perhaps, he muses, it is because they are both ex-officers now, though Will has traded in his uniform for another of the same kind. Robb's looks similar, but lighter in color with less pockets and the logo of the college on the sleeves. He no longer carries a gun.

"Roper getting coffee?" He doesn't wait for Will to answer. "It's this damn Ripper case, isn't it? We've been getting a lot more calls from students convinced the bastard's following them or something." A quiet huff escapes him. "Betcha' the enrollment numbers are going down for next fall. Drastically. Wouldn't be surprised if some kids transferred."

Will doesn't really care. As far as he knows from station gossip, the Ripper has never killed someone so young before, and none of the other victims even worked at the college. He still ignores the files, but of this he's sure: these kids are at a much lower risk of catching the Ripper's attention. They simply exist outside of his sphere. Robb will wonder how he knows this.

"Sanders is all riled up," he offers instead. "Worse than last time."

Robb wrinkles the left leg of his pants with a clenched hand. "We thought he was _gone_ , Graham. Fucker went away for two years. Didn't even finish his last set of kills -- not publicly at least."

They both think of the FBI trainee agent. Her picture ran along the articles on her sudden disappearance, but neither of them can remember what she looked like.

"He doesn't need to kill," Will says after a moment. Robb's gaze is on him, he can feel it as he watches two students sprint across the street right before the crosswalk changes. "The articles flushed him out." As far as he's concerned, Dr. Frederick Chilton and the FBI made themselves targets of the largest predator on the East Coast. A shiver crawls up his back as the water rises. _Ignorant._

"Why the hell you're with the BPD, I have no idea, Graham. Robberies are bullshit for a guy with your record." Robb's voice is low, tired. When Will transferred, it was a big issue. Would Mr. Hotshot Detective just walk in and take over? Instead, they'd gotten Graham -- a quiet officer with a bite to him and no desire to solve the major crimes. It was a waste.

"I prefer robberies." He rarely needs to dive, sink for desperate thieves. If anything, it's comforting, and the only person he owed explaining that to was Chief Sanders, and so Will told the man the basics -- his 'gift' and the toll it had taken on his brain back in New Orleans. He doesn't owe Robb any of it.

There's a rapping at the passenger window. Will flicks the button to unlock the door but doesn't turn to face it. Roper's back.

"My break's over anyway," Robb grumbles. He swings the door open, hefting himself out of the seat. "Lookin' grumpy, Greg."

Roper snorts, sliding into the car and handing Will his coffee. "You should see the Chief."

"I'm thankful for every day I don't have to," Robb says and walks back to his post with a short wave.

"Let's get out, Graham."

Will drops his coffee into one of the cup holders and nods. There's no valid reason to put off the inevitable; every day since the Ripper's reappearance was filled with frantic calls, and they have to check every single one, because, as Sanders barks at any cop caught complaining, a few of those calls are bound to be real, dangerous situations. Will knows none of them will actually involve the Ripper. It's one of many things he knows about this killer despite his avoidance, his angry treading in a body of water that has risen much faster than any before. He won't let him in.

If Morgan Tyler was a wave, the Chesapeake Ripper will be an entire ocean falling onto him all at once. 

  


The worst patrols are at night. Every car along the streets becomes a stalker, every tree on the sidewalks a robber, every alley cat a murderer. The Chesapeake Ripper lurks at the bottom of everyone's fire escape. Will stands behind Roper, facing the street, as the man knocks on the door of the townhouse. This will be one of their last stops, but the man was hysterical on the phone according to the radio call, and both officers know this will also be taxing. Will can already feel the panic oozing through the brick facade. 

"Sir, this is Officers Roper and Graham from the Baltimore PD. We're here to check up on your call. Can you tell me exactly what you heard?"

Roper is better with people than Will is despite his innate understanding of them, so he lets the other man do the talking and interacting. 

"Ok, sir, why don't you stay inside while Officer Graham and I check the back," his partner says, and it isn't a suggestion. The last thing they need is someone actually lurking in the alley behind the row of houses and this man fucking up their approach. 

_It's 2:52 in the morning, I'm Officer Will Graham, and I'm in Baltimore, Maryland, it's 2:52 in the morning, I'm Officer Will Graham, and I'm_ \--

"Shake it off, Graham," Roper says, careful not to touch him as he brings himself out of his mantra.

"Trying to," he grits out. The whole city reeks of fear; it's impossible to shake all of it off. He manages as best as he can.

Shadows, the alley is all shadows -- shadows from the townhouses that sandwich it, from the fences around the small bits of backyard, from the trashcans, cars, and bicycles that line the way. The moon doesn't provide much light, and the streetlights are too far away to do much either, but they cast a dull yellow glow where they reach. Both officers have a hand on their guns and a hand on their flashlights. The terrified occupants of the third townhouse from the end peek through the windows, occasionally disappearing when they hear a rustle. Will knows without looking at his partner that Roper hears it, too. There is something behind the townhouse, in the spaces the lights don't touch. Roper slowly, carefully uses the key he got from the caller to open the padlock on the back fence. 

Something bursts out through the door, knocking over a bucket of dirty gardening tools on its way out.

The urge to shoot is strong, but they need to assess the situation first. This control is what saves them from becoming dog killers. The thin mutt is staring warily at them from across the alley now, and Will, still alert in case the dog isn't the _only_ thing in the fenced yard, keeps a hand on his gun even as he reaches into his pocket for the stick of jerky he always keeps on hand for late shifts. 

Ropers huffs out a laugh. "He was digging up their planters," he says and shines a light around the bottom edge of the fence. There's a shallow ditch on one of the sides. "Dug his way in, knocked over a metal watering can. That must've woken them up." 

Will coaxes the mutt closer with the jerky, and the dog pulls it a few feet away before scarfing it down. 

"I'll go knock on the door again. Meet you in the car?"

"In a minute," he says. The dog is inching closer to his outstretched palm, and Will knows this one is coming home with him. 

  


They make their way back to the station after another twenty minutes of reassuring the man that his backyard is Chesapeake Ripper-free. The dog, obviously a stray, lays on the floor of the backseat. He's a good dog, willing to listen despite not being used to an owner, and Roper remarks that Will won't have any trouble with him -- he's obviously attached to the quiet man already.

"I fed him," he says even though he knows his partner is right. Worse yet, _Will_ is already attached to the dog. He's lucky his landlord allows pets, though he's going to have to pay another fee to have a second dog around.

  


He doesn't have to lure the dog into his apartment, the mutt just follows at his heels and noses his leg when he stops to unlock the door. A jingle comes around the corner, and Will smiles as he heads to the kitchen for the box of treats to reward both of his dogs, even though the new dog is trailing dirt wherever he steps. They both follow him to the kitchen and then the bathroom, Buster for treats and love, the new dog out of curiosity. Under their gaze, he fills a bucket with lukewarm water from the tub and sets it aside. 

"Buster," he calls with a whistle, pointing at a dog bed by the bathroom door. Buster trots over and settles willingly. He gets a treat for his obedience. The new dog is next, though Will is still debating names, so he merely leads the dog closer to the tub and taps the rim until the mutt gets the hint and hops in. It's easy from there; he slowly tips the bucket of water over the dog, works the dog shampoo through his grimy coat, rinses him off with another bucket, and repeats to make sure he's clean. The dog patiently sits through the bath, looking around at his new surroundings as the water washes off his time on the streets. Water streams down his new owner's arms, and splatters of soap bubbles streak his uniform shirt, but shirts can be washed, and the three occupants of the apartment can't be bothered to worry about it.

Toweling the mutt off, Will pushes up his glasses and snaps his fingers to get Buster's attention again. "Buster, this is... Winston," he says. "Winston, this is Buster."

  


Two mornings later, he's sitting in the kitchen with his standard breakfast: toast, black coffee, and the newspaper. The dogs are at his feet tearing into the sausages he spoils them with a few days a week, and the whole scene would be very domestic if not for the grimace on Will's face. 

_Lost Boys Found!_ the headline on the first page says. It's accompanied by a picture of their 'Mother' staring straight at the camera, and Will is too damn exhausted to stop the water. _I just want a family._ He folds the paper back up sloppily and leans over to drop it in the trash. _A_ real _family._

_I am Will Graham, it's 5:21 in the morning, and I am in my apartment in Baltimore, Maryland._

A whine catches his attention. "Hey, Winston," he says gratefully, scratching between the mutt's ears.

Buster's not a jealous dog -- in fact, he and Winston like to curl up together in the single dog bed he has ( _for now_ ) -- but he's not happy to be left out either, and so Will gets a lapful of dog to occupy his left hand as Winston noses his right. This is Will's family; he's happy with them. He allows himself a moment to bask in it and a moment to mourn for those boys. They will likely end up in foster homes or institutions, but no one will be able to give back to them what they have been convinced to give away. 

  


It's only a moment, however, and it doesn't stop him from getting into work on time and following Roper out to a patrol car with a travel mug of shitty station coffee. He expects what has recently become a normal work day (people are only _slightly_ less paranoid in the daytime), and even his partner jokingly guesses how many calls they'll check up on before the shift is over, but there is only one call for them that day -- one single call from the concert hall used by the Baltimore Metropolitan Orchestra. 

  


"I-I didn't know what else to do. The FBI needs to see this, right?" the woman who meets them in front of the concert hall says before they can introduce themselves. She's jumpy, pale, and Will can smell the vomit on her breath from five feet away. Her jitters rush along his spine. "Oh God, I just saw him the other day!"

"Ma'am, I'm Officer Roper, and this is Officer Graham." Roper talks to her like he would a child, but she's too terrified to notice. "Can you tell us what happened?"

She nods a few times. "I came in to set up -- we're supposed to have a concert tonight, I guess we'll have to cancel that, um -- and I saw him, it," she stutters out, her face paling even more before she continues in a whisper, " _the body_ , There's a body. Douglas Wilson. Um, he's, he _was_ a trombonist with the Metropolitan Orchestra."

A body. Will shudders. He'd successfully avoided being the first on a murder scene for over a year now, and with the smog of panic looming over the city, it's going to be harder than ever to keep himself from drowning.

"I think it might be the Ripper," she says softly, hesitantly as if he'll jump out from somewhere and gut her. 

"Have you touched the scene at all, ma'am?" Roper's jaw is tense. Will knows he's trying to access the situation. They might have to call the Chief, and _he_ might have to call the FBI.

"No, I, um, I didn't go up on the stage at all."

"Show us," Will says curtly. 

  


It only takes a glance at the body for the water to reach his chest. Roper is paralyzed next to him, because this is like nothing either of them has seen up close, having never been to a Ripper scene before the FBI took over. A man -- Douglas Wilson the trombonist, if the woman is correct -- is posed on the stage, throat open, cello neck lodged in his mouth, and vocal cords on display. It certainly looks like it _could_ be a Ripper murder.

Will knows it isn't.

_I open the throat from the outside to access his trachea..._

"The killer brought him here to put on a show," he grits out. 

_I wanted to play him, to create a sound, my sound._

Roper glances at him and mutters, "One hell of a show."

They call the Chief.

_This is my design._

  


When the FBI arrives, Roper and Will are waiting for them, keeping anyone else out of the scene so that it doesn't get contaminated. The agents ignore them while they set up. Roper tells him not to be surprised.

"They think they're better than us, because they don't have to deal with petty crimes." He sighs and rubs at his eyes. "Maybe they are. They'll acknowledge us sooner or later, anyway."

When they do, it's merely to tell them to stay out of the way and keep others out, too.

Sanders is pissed at the loss, but their entire shift is spent that way.

  


The FBI takes over, and the Baltimore PD is just barely kept in the loop. Although no more bodies show up, Will dreams about it at night -- dreams about standing behind Douglas Wilson with his bow, about bringing it to the cords and making a sound. The seats in front of him are full of people, and he knows _every single one of them_. He put them in jail (except, of course, for the few he's killed; they sit in the first row, start a standing ovation). When he is done, he smiles and bows, and they clap. 

He can tell Roper is dreaming about the body, too. Their patrols are silent. 

  


"I hate to do this, Graham, but I'm going to," Sanders says when Will walks into his office. 

It's not unexpected. To be honest, he was expecting this much earlier.

"You got into his head, didn't you?"

Will nods jerkily.

"You and Roper are going with an agent to check out a few music shops. If we can catch this bastard before he kills again," Sanders says.

"I'll get Roper," Will cuts in. He doesn't need to hear the justification. Sanders is using him, and Will will let him, because he's already got a foot in this case. 

"I've already sent the agent to his desk," the Chief says.

Will feels like laughing. It would be a bitter sound.

"I'll get both of them then." And then he walks out. 

  


"Next we're checking out a place called Chordophone. It's owned by a Tobias Budge," Agent Carden says, handing a newspaper to Will from his place in the back seat. Will and Roper opted to take the patrol car, and neither of them was going to sit in the back in their own car.

The newspaper is more than they got for the last two shops, but unlike those owners and employees, Mr. Budge is apparently worthy of being on the society pages. Will slides a thumb over the small picture. Budge is standing there with a shorter, heavyset man, a lean man, and an older woman. He sticks the paper in the glove compartment. Nothing in it will confirm this man is a killer.

"It doesn't look like a killer's shop," Roper mutters as they pull up. He'd rather be on patrol. 

So would Will. "Let's get this over with."

Agent Carden, unsurprisingly, takes the lead, cutting in front of Roper as they near the door. A bell signals their arrival. Ushering a student to the door, Tobias Budge appears. Will consciously lets the water rise until it laps at his collar.

"Mr. Budge? We're investigating the death of Douglas Wilson," Carden says.

Budge nods. "The trombonist."

"You knew him?" Roper cuts in.

"I was aware of him. Baltimore's a small town, and the cultural arts community is an even smaller one." He smiles pleasantly.

"That's why we're here, Mr. Budge," Will says, looking into the man's eyes. Something's there. He can't tell quite yet if the man is the killer, but he's certainly _something_.

"I hear someone cut his throat and tried to play it with a bow."

"Why do you say try?" Agent Carden says before Roper can get a word out. 

"The strings have to be treated. You can't just open somebody up and draw a bow across their innards and expect to produce a sound."

Will almost chuckles; he's baiting them. He wants to hear about his kill.

And he's right. _Of course_ he's right. It happens quickly after that, Budge grabbing something sharp and jamming it into Carden's throat and ripping it back out without pause. The agent goes down to his knees as the blood gushes out between his fingers. He's dead; no ambulance will get there in time. Budge goes for Roper next, since he's closer than Will. Roper's more ready for him than Carden was, however, and the bloody tool only goes through his chest, missing his heart, before Will gets his gun out and aims for the killer's head. He misses when the man moves to duck in front of his faltering partner. He runs. Will, torn between leaving his second partner die and catching the killer, lets him go, calling in for backup and an ambulance before dropping to the floor to apply pressure to the wound. 

It takes less than a minute. 

  


_Not again_ , he thinks, hot blood coating his hands. He's treading hard, frantically, because he needs to be _Officer Will Graham, Baltimore, Maryland_ for this, not _Tobias Budge, I wanted to make my sound_ right now, right when he's on the edge of losing his partner again.

_Two for two._

"Dammit, Greg," he hisses.

"Fuck off, Graham." He's wheezing, and Will's pretty sure he has a punctured lung. "Ambulance on the way. Go."

Will presses down on his wound harder.

" _Go._ "

He does. 

  


His hands are tacky with blood, the cuffs of his shirt saturated and clinging to his wrists, as he gets into the car. He waited too long to see where Budge went. Now the man has a minute head start on him.

He digs into the glove compartment for the newspaper. 

The most expressive face in the entire picture is that of the short, heavyset man beside Budge, and their closeness indicates they came together, so Will takes a deep breath and lets it out through his nose, sinking into him.

_I want him to notice me. I want him to see me. I'm worthy of him, I_ know _it. I want to be friends with him. We have so much in common._

Both he and Budge are staring at the other man in the photo, a tall blond man with an old world feel. He skims the caption for the names. _Hannibal Lecter, MD._ A quick Google search on his phone brings up the man's office address, and Will follows his gut, turning the key with red hands and letting the siren pave the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who left me kudos and comments!! It's great to know people are enjoying this. I do have a big test and an essay coming up this week, though, so the next chapter might take longer to write!
> 
> I've been toying with using newspaper headlines as chapter titles... we'll see how that works out in the future.
> 
> Also, keep in mind that Will not being in the FBI means the events of the show are going to happen at different times (aka, the killers won't always be captured when they are in the show). So, in the DMF timeline, the Lost Boys weren't caught until a week-ish before Fromage. Hopefully I'll be able to sneak in information about other cases as I go since I've already figured out what I'm going to do with most of the cases from before.
> 
> (I'm also super surprised this chapter ended up being so long! I can promise to make every chapter at least 1,000 words, but, just so you know, future chapters might be shorter than this and the prologue.)
> 
> Don't forget, if you have any questions or want a teaser or something, feel free to ask me here: holyfudgemonkeys.tumblr.com


	3. Justice or Vengeance?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The officer isn't facing them directly, but they can see part of his expression, and Hannibal is well-versed in the nuances of the face. Determination, resignation, resolve. _Transformation._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> They finally meet! This chapter also wraps up Fromage, and there should be some fancy food coming up in the next chapter... send me some suggestions for dishes on tumblr! (url: holyfudgemonkeys) I love to cook, but I'm coming up with blanks for it so far.

He switches the siren off a few blocks away from the office. Sirens aren't too suspicious in Baltimore (Buster doesn't even bark at them during the night anymore, and Will has learned to tune them out), but he knows Budge will be expecting the police. He'll be expecting and anticipating their arrival with a sick sense of glee ( _Let them, let them come. I will kill them._ ) that Will refuses to give him. They already gave him so much; two lives were sacrificed for Budge. A third is likely on his way to the emergency room right now, and Will, with skin and clothes dipped in the blood of two of those three, wants to take back as much as he can.

When he gets to the office, he needs to peel his hands off of the steering wheel, leaving behind spots of red in the shape of the groves of his palms.

 

"You're probably scared, probably feel like you're all alone." A voice seeps through the door and into the waiting room. It is not Budge, and it does not sound like what he imagines the doctor to sound like either.

He's careful to take slow steps, to move without rustling his clothes. Budge will see him coming but _only_ when Will wants him to.

"I'm not alone." _Budge._

Holding his firearm out in front of him, Officer Will Graham knocks the door open with a sharp kick, startling two of the three occupants of the room. _Curious._

"I'm sorry for intruding on you and your client, Dr. Lecter, but I have reason to believe Tobias Budge is in your office," he says, giving a quick glance in the doctor's direction but otherwise staring straight at Budge. Budge will not run. _Not again._

"Under these conditions, it is quite alright, Officer," Dr. Lecter says in a light tone.

Any other time, Will might try to figure out just where that accent came from, but Budge pulls out a long whip of what he assumes are strings of treated human gut, and Will has to focus. He absently notes that the doctor is leading the shorter man back to the wall. 

And then the gut whip strikes his hand. His shot still goes off, but instead of disabling (or killing, _he deserves to die for what he's done, not again, not again, dammit Greg_ ) it merely takes a chunk of Budge's ear off. Will drops the gun from the pain.

As an officer of the law, Will should use his training to disable the murderer in front of him until he can be brought into custody. The simple truth is that _he doesn't want to do that._ Not for a cop killer. He doesn't think about any of this in the moment, however. A quick, instinctual glance down tells him that his own blood is flowing along the plains of his hand to settle and mix with the drying remains of Greg's. It's enough for him to decide.

Pushing back Officer Will Graham of the BPD, he dives into the water and swims as far as he can into Tobias Budge. The change is instant. His back straightens, his limbs stop their light shaking. There is nothing he can do about Budge's skills or agility, however, because although the water surrounds him, clings to every curve and dip of his body, filling his mouth and lungs when he gasps for air, he cannot merge with it or absorb it fully. Like a murky reflection, he is neither a true copy nor the original. He is Tobias Budge's image projected onto Will Graham's body.

This projection, intangible as it is, is what connects them. His movements are steady and flowing and not at all like the furious tremors from mere moments ago, which is enough to put Budge off balance. That is his undoing. Will's gun is on the floor, but he does not need a gun, because _Budge_ does not need a gun. It is killer against killer. As Budge swings his arm, his reflection leans back to dodge the whip strike. He pursues; the reflection darts forward for surprise, gripping the gut strings as Budge wraps them around his wrist, and tugs. He resists the reversal but ultimately stumbles forward into a jab hard enough to crack ribs. His reflection twists around him smoothly and lines the strings across his face, his throat. Pulls. 

Unlike Budge (writhing on the floor and gasping wetly through his own blood now, _just like Greg, cop killer, he deserved it, **let them come, I will kill them**_ ) Will is the ultimate adapter. 

He surfaces again with a foot on Budge's back and lets the water bead off of his skin as he turns to face his audience (the water drains, but the music rises, and his latest addition is leading the standing ovation). "Sorry again for the blood, Dr. Lecter," Officer Will Graham says with a grin more like a grimace. "And the door."

Red eyes gaze at him curiously, assessing. "Worry not, Officer --?"

Next to him stands the shorter man, whose own eyes are tearing up at the sight of his former friend dying under Will's foot.

"Will Graham," he says to the man's chin and pulls out his radio to alert the station.

 

_Curious._

 

Hannibal knows his office -- knows the exits, the floorboards, the very sounds the building makes. _Of course_ he knew someone was in the waiting room. The thud of the door was near imperceptible, but he has never been normal, and neither Tobias nor Franklyn hear simply because they do not know his domain the way he does. 

His only question is, _who?_ Too quiet to be the police, and Franklyn's session is far from over, so it cannot be another patient. For a moment he almost suspects Freddie Lounds (whom he already caught once trying to listen to Jack discuss a case with him), but it is too soon for her to have a lead on Tobias. His plans are ruined regardless. _If only he would get to the point and finish the pig_ , he thinks, watching but not participating in this final act between 'friends'. 

He has no doubt that the insufferably clingy man will find this experience, this 'shared trauma' another reason to bond with him should he survive. How _exasperating_.

Then the door is kicked open. He's careful to hide his disdain for the way it splinters around the lock and dents the wall where the doorknob hits. The man behind the kick, despite his earlier assumption, is a police officer, though he is still not what one would expect from a cop -- his hands are dark red with blood, his uniform clings wetly in places, and even his face, his glasses are splattered with liquid life.

Tobias left a witness behind and _intact_. How he _ever_ thought Hannibal would be his friend is a mystery, and it becomes laughably clear that the other killer and Franklyn have more in common than they know. 

"I'm sorry for intruding on you and your client, Dr. Lecter, but I have reason to believe Tobias Budge is in your office."

Hannibal tilts his head. His intruder is, at least, less rude than the other two pigs in his office. "Under these conditions, it is quite alright, Officer," he says, making sure his voice is clear of both annoyance and curiosity. Although the officer does not look, Hannibal's face is also covered with a mask of relief. He has to keep up appearances.

It is hard to do so with Franklyn Froideveaux in the room. Shifting anxiously, the man opens his mouth several times to, no doubt, try to reason with the officer to give them more time to get through to Tobias. He's predictable, and playing with predictable people can bore him so. This police officer, however, shows promise. It is almost a pity the FBI insists on handling his masterpieces -- a smile almost breaks his mask when he thinks of racing against this man, each of them trying to figure out the other's puzzle first. 

_And what a puzzle he is_ , Hannibal thinks and catalogues the shaking of his hands and the dark resolve in his eyes. It would be an interesting experiment to pit him against both the excited Tobias and the frantically naive Franklyn, but he is far too interested in how this cop will deal with Tobias alone. Such anger and emotion in his very posture. Hadn't Tobias boasted about killing two men before coming to his office? Partners, perhaps even friends, of the man, then. Whatever they meant to him, their deaths obviously caused him great emotional distress, and Hannibal has seen many men falter and die under less potent distractions. 

But he is intrigued to realize just how startlingly sure he is that the man will win. The officer's persistence, whatever deduction he made to bring him to Hannibal's office of all places (for he had only met the other killer three times before and therefore had no great connection to him), and his quiet entrance suggest that he might be able to best Tobias. The man did, after all, arrive several minutes after he had first detected the killer's presence entering his building. This officer did not follow his prey but _hunted_ him down, covered in blood and without backup.

A grand show is unfolding in front of him, and Hannibal does not want to miss any of it. "Come, Franklyn, I believe it is in everyone's best interests if we remain out of the way," he says softly but firmly before making his way to the wall, expecting and knowing that his client will follow him. It is unfortunate that the man will live to see many more days if this show ends as he suspects ( _hopes_ ) it will, but Hannibal can do nothing to change the new fate of the irritating man without casting suspicion upon himself just as this new game is starting. 

He holds back a sigh as the officer puts a bullet into his wall. The hole is fixable, of course, but he had hoped this show would not lapse into the predictable. Beside him, Franklyn gasps and tries to grab his arm for support at the sight of Budge's bleeding ear. Hannibal shifts to avoid his clingy patient in time. 

Then he sees it. The officer isn't facing them directly, but they can see part of his expression, and Hannibal is well-versed in the nuances of the face. Determination, resignation, resolve. _Transformation._ Oh, this is _fascinating_. Glancing at Tobias only confirms what he already suspected. The officer has become his opponent in some way, and it is as if there are two Tobias Budges in his office. He lets out a slow breath. 

_Empathy,_ pure _empathy._

In little more than a minute, the officer is strangling, slicing Tobias with his own weapon, and Hannibal knows he will thoroughly enjoy this game.

 

"Sorry again for the blood, Dr. Lecter," the officer says sheepishly, though his foot is still keeping Tobias pinned to the floor like he is nothing more than a pathetic animal. "And the door."

"Worry not, Officer --?" 

"Will Graham," he says and fiddles with his radio.

The power of knowing another's name is a reoccurring theme throughout history and literature, and Hannibal can't help but even the score. _Officer Will Graham._ A certain familiarity comes with sharing names. Hiding a smirk, he strides up to desk and pulls a small first aid kit out of one of the drawers. It is his own, complete with sedatives, needles, and thread. "Officer Graham," he says when the man has finished his call for backup.

He looks so stiff, standing there with nothing to do but keep Tobias down. "What do you need, Dr. Lecter?"

"Ah, but it is not what I need," he says and then approaches, slowly reaching out for Will's bloody hands. "I believe you will need stitches."

Will's gaze jumps from Hannibal's chin down to his own hands. They're bleeding steadily from several sharp, thin lines. "Backup will be here soon," he says, watching his blood fill the crevices between his fingers where Greg's blood is already dried.

"I may be a psychiatrist now, Officer Graham, but I worked in an ER for many years. Please, it will be no issue." He smiles pleasantly, and only part of it is faked. "Your hands will be very happy for it, as well."

Will looks down at Budge again before nodding jerkily. "I need to stay here, though."

"Of course. Franklyn," Hannibal says, turning around to the man still whimpering by the wall, "there are hand towels in the bathroom. Wet two and bring them back. _Franklyn_." He opens his kit as the pig finally scurries out to the waiting room. The small glass table is easily moved from its normal place to right beside Will, and he sets what he needs down on it before cleaning his hands with a small pack of wipes. It would take almost no time at all to go wash his hands properly, to get the towels himself, but the officer's attention needs to be on him and _only_ him. 

"Dr. Lecter, where should I --," Franklyn stalls, the renewed sight of Tobias choking on his own blood becoming too much, and his words devolve to whimpers again. 

"Right here is fine, Franklyn." As soon as the towels are there, he works on methodically cleaning, disinfecting, and stitching up Will's hands. "Your hands are rough, even for a police officer, Mr. Graham."

"Will," he says, staring down at the needle piercing his flesh. "I work on boat motors sometimes."

"Ah. You will need to rest them for some time to let them heal, but I assure you you will be quite able to work with motors again in the future, Will."

Will shifts uncomfortably. "Uh, thanks. Dr. Lecter."

"It is I who should be thanking you. If you would permit me, I would like to invite you to dinner at my home," he says softly, so as not to startle Will or be overheard by Franklyn. Exchanging names was the first step, and Hannibal is confident in himself. "Perhaps in a week or two." Close, but not too close.

It is obvious that the man is struggling to decline without being rude. How endearing, even if his wincing and discomfort are plain to see. 

"Please, it would be my pleasure."

He shrugs, grimacing as it pulls slightly at Hannibal's stitching. "Sure."

Inspecting the hand in front of him (perfect stitches, like always), Hannibal gently but clinically rubs pearls of antibacterial ointment into each cut before bandaging them and moving on to the next hand. He cradles it in his palm as he begins the next stitch. _Such intimacy_ , he thinks, enjoying the smears of this man's blood on his hands. _I cannot wait to consume you, Will Graham_. "We can exchange numbers before you leave."

It's then that several police officers and federal agents come into the building. Their steps are loud even to Will, but Hannibal's work is finished steadily with no crooked or uneven stitching. 

"Jesus Christ, Graham," Sanders says, shaking his head at the sight in front of him.

The towels on the table are stained with his blood, but he's still covered in Greg's, in Agent Carden's, and his sleeves are wet with his own as well. Belatedly, Will realizes that even his glasses are splattered. He murmurs a quick thanks to Hannibal as the man puts his supplies back in the kit. Agents are already talking to a distressed Franklyn, and a broad, black man strides towards Hannibal. His entire posture screams in charge and Will almost slips into him. "I got 'im," is all he says to the Chief.

"No shit. You plan on standing on him until he dies?"

Budge is handcuffed and lifted down the steps into an ambulance as soon as he moves. The carpet beneath him is saturated with his blood. "How's Greg?"

"He's in surgery, but it's hopeful." He snaps his fingers until Will looks up into his eyes. "You okay?" His voice is low, his face pinched.

 _Now you feel guilty_ , Will thinks and feels that bitter laugh rising again. "I've been doing this for years, Chief."

"Looks like your hands are going to need time to heal. Take time off."

"I'm fine."

"Take time off, Graham, or I'll suspend you. Visit Roper, go fishing, spend some time with those mutts of yours. Just stay away from the station, alright?"

"Until my hands are healed," Will says firmly. "I _won't_ be benched longer than that, Chief."

"Until your hands are healed," Sanders echoes. 

"Sanders," the man talking to Hannibal barks out.

"C'mon Graham," the Chief mutters, pulling him over to the desk.

"This is your Officer Graham," the agent says.

"Yeah," Will grits out. "And you are?"

"Agent Jack Crawford," he says in a deceptively pleasant tone before turning back to Hannibal.

Will bristles at the treatment, but Sanders lays a hand on his shoulder.

"Now, Tobias Budge killed one of my agents and nearly killed a Baltimore police officer, and after that, his first stop is here, your office."

"He came to kill my patient."

"Your patient?" Crawford says and glances over at Franklyn across the room. "Is that who Budge was serenading?"

Hannibal doesn't answer right away.

"Well?"

"I don't think so. Franklyn knows more than he was telling me. He told Mr. Budge he didn't have to kill anymore. And if not for Officer Graham, he would have killed Franklyn. He attacked the officer instead." Hannibal pauses. "I thought this was a simple matter of poor choice in friends."

"This doesn't feel simple to me." Crawford turns to Will again, staring at him. "You killed him."

"He was still breathing when they took him," Will says evenly. He's grimacing again, humor fighting with the knowledge of just what's he done. They both know he will likely die before the day is over.

Crawford's eyes narrow. "Tell me, Officer, just how did you know to come here? You stayed behind to call for backup instead of pursuing, didn't you?"

It's Sanders' turn to be pissed off, and Will's turn to calm him down, though he can't rest a hand on the Chief's shoulder, so he settles for shouldering past him until he's in front of the agent. "Your agent provided us with information. Tobias Budge was close with one Franklyn Froideveax. Mr. Froideveax is Dr. Lecter's patient. I'm a cop, I followed the lead." None of it is a lie. None of it is an answer either. He doesn't like people poking around in his head, and he's learned that the best way to avoid that is simply not to flaunt his abilities.

"Oh?" the agent growls out.

"Graham's known for his leaps," Sanders cuts in. "But if you're so insistent on doubting my officers, you can at least raise your concerns with me first." He smiles tightly.

"I have no doubts," Crawford says. "Only questions. We'll talk again, Officer."

"Just let me know when you want to stop by, Agent." Will's smile is sharp, his eyes flat. "I'll break out the good china." Once the man has stormed off (Sanders wandering off, too, to talk to his other officers), he moves to stand next to Hannibal, trying to soak up some of the man's calm without becoming him. "You were saying something about dinner next week?"

"Of course," Hannibal says, smiling slightly. "Would Thursday be amenable to you?"

 

Mere hours later, he opens the newest Tattle Crime article. The headline, _Justice or Vengeance?_ , is followed by a distant photograph of a bandaged and bloody Will outside of his office, and though the speculation about the incident ( _about Will_ ) is wildly inaccurate, Hannibal savors it all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This came earlier than I was expecting tbh, but I'm glad I finished it before my essay is due (I also now have a presentation on Tuesday grrr) so I can focus on the work not this. I'm not sure when the next chapter will be out, though. These next few weeks are the beginning of midterms soooo I'll have tests, essays, etc. taking up my time. This is also the last chapter I have a written outline for (though I haven't been following it much, whoops, so that might not affect when I finish the next one anyway).
> 
> Anyway, thanks so much for all the comments and kudos!! I'm so glad people seem to be enjoying this as much as I'm enjoying writing it. And if you have any food ideas for next chapter (or later chapters) please comment here or send an ask to my tumblr!


	4. Will Graham: The True Story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Mr. Graham, _just_ who I wanted to see," she says smoothly, her grin all sharp angles and edges.
> 
> "Do I know you?" he bites out. Nothing about her face is familiar, but the ache growing at his temples is a sign of the truth he's trying to ignore. 
> 
> "Freddie Lounds," she says coyly. "Talk with me for a few minutes?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to warn you, the title is a bit misleading here
> 
> Also, I added a few words and a sentence or two to the prologue to clarify Will's rank, but it's not necessary to go back and reread it.

When he goes back to his apartment, he's still covered in blood. Greg's blood, his own blood, Tobias Budge's blood, all of it dried together, and he knows the uniform will never be clean again. It will always smell like blood to him ( _like triumph_ , he thinks, pushing Budge back a little more). The stiff fabric comes off easy, though, so he stuffs it into a trash bag without much more than a hint of a grimace before making his way to the bathroom in boxers and an undershirt. Of course, those will have to go, too, he realizes with a small huff when he pulls them off beside the tub. Whatever agents were sent to take apart Budge's shop must be pissed at him for all the blood smears he left on the floor.

He spares a moment to think of Agent Carden under the cold jet of water that weighs his bangs down, covering his eyes and dissolving the blood splattered across his face. 

What it comes down to in his mind is this: Carden knew what he was getting into. He knew Budge could have been the killer. He knew letting his guard down could end in his death. He knew that by placing himself ahead of Will and Greg he was putting himself forward as a target. Will is not responsible for his death. 

Will doesn't _feel_ responsible for his death.

He doesn't feel the cold water as it runs down his neck, his chest. Distance, there's _so much distance_ , and its emptiness both weighs down on him and frees him. _I'm not a good person_ , he thinks and smiles thinly into the water's cold spray. 

The shampoo runs into his eyes, and when the small, smooth sliver of what's left of his bar of soap slips out from clenched hand, his body aches too much from fatigue and the fight and almost losing his partner again ( _not again, not again_ ) to bother to pick it up again, but in the end he's clean enough and aware enough to step out onto the bathmat and stop the dogs from nosing at his bloody underclothes. They nip at his heels and whine as he stuffs the clothes into the trash with his uniform. "Not for you," he mutters, adjusting the towel around his waist. Buster huffs. 

Just for the night, he encourages them to sleep up on the bed with him. They curl up around his damp legs as he turns off his alarm.

 

It doesn't matter that he's on leave; his body wakes up automatically by nine, and once the dogs know he's up, he has to stay up to feed them, and if he goes into the kitchen to get them food, he's going to walk out to get the paper, too. His body's awake, so he's awake.

The problem is that there's nothing for him to do. Instead of folding the paper back up, stepping into his uniform, and driving to the station, Will has to stay away. He also doesn't need groceries. The dogs will like having a longer walk, but he can't stretch it out for hours. He doesn't even have any friends in Baltimore which is his own fault, he knows, but he's gone through loss before and never wanted to go through it again, so if that and his empathy make him a jackass, he's okay with it.

Regardless, he's got nothing to do. What did Sanders suggest again?

_Take time off, Graham, or I'll suspend you. Visit Roper, go fishing, spend some time with those mutts of yours. Just stay away from the station, alright?_

Well, he hasn't gone fishing in a while. The dogs would appreciate being outside in a more natural environment, too. (He wants to visit Greg, he does, but he _can't_. Not yet.)

"Looks like we're going to Cox's Point," he murmurs, pouring food into the dog bowls in the kitchen. 

 

Slow and quiet, fishing has always been a calm place for Will. Buster rolls around on the grass, the fish bite only occasionally if at all, and he can focus on that instead of the stench of blood. This is a different kind of water that he submerges himself in. Except today he brought something else in with him.

Not Winston. Winston is doing fine with Buster every time Will glances back to make sure they haven't run off (even though he knows they wouldn't). The two dogs are great companions for each other and for him, and they're well-behaved, so he doesn't have to worry about them bothering anyone else in the park. 

It's not Greg either. Chief Sanders would contact him if anything happened.

Not even Tobias Budge is bothering him now, because although he is always there, lurking in the back of his mind with all the others, he's no match for Will's experience in ignoring annoying murderers. If all those who came before Budge haven't sent Will to a mental hospital, then neither will Budge. 

_Not that it they haven't come close_ , he thinks and remembers the heat, the confusion. His grip on the fishing pole is as steady as when he first went into the water.

No, of all the things that could be bothering him, it was Dr. Hannibal Lecter buzzing persistently around his head.

Will has saved people before. There isn't always gratitude in his job -- often the opposite to be honest -- but some of those people were grateful. During the aftermath of his first big case, the Morgan Tyler case, people sent letters, cards, and even drawings (courtesy of a sibling of one of the victims and every kid in their first grade class who thought it would be cool to send a drawing to a local hero). The parents of the first victim thanked him through the local news channel. The grandmother of the third victim baked him cookies (her granddaughter's favorite, and _please take them Officer Graham, because you've put Eve to rest, and I don't think I could ever make them for anyone else again_ ), which he took and ate and thanked her for. Heartless as he may be, the sobbing grandmother made him think of his own, who would have slapped him for being so rude as to turn them down or throw them out. Gran Harley was also the reason he accepted the blessing and prayer the parents of the last victim insisted on giving him in the middle of the station on his first day back. (The mother gripped his hands in hers and cried and kissed them briefly during the visit, and Will was uncomfortable enough from the attention and the touching that he spent the following half an hour in the men's restroom until Lou pulled him out. Wasn't that _fucked up_ , having people pray for him, when all he'd done was _shoot a man to death_.)

He grew a tougher skin, got more used to dealing with people and his abilities (even if it meant just avoiding them), and further incidents didn't shake him the same way.

Dr. Lecter is different, somehow. It wasn't the first dinner invitation he'd gotten from someone he saved, but it was the first time he accepted it. He wishes he could blame it on the man's calmness, because it isn't often he meets someone whose personality, whose entire being doesn't try to push itself onto him, and it's even less frequent that Will purposefully pulls on other people outside of a case. Of course, he needed it after the fight and after meeting Agent Crawford.

It isn't Dr. Lecter's presence.

Will walks back to the grass, fishing pole in hand, to pack up. He won't be catching any fish today.

 

Halfway through a delivery pizza from the place three blocks north, his cell phone rings, and he almost doesn't answer it, because it's the station -- less than twenty-four hours into his time off. 

"Graham," he says, letting Buster lick his greasy fingers clean.

"Do you know how many calls I've gotten about you in the last twelve hours?" It's Chief Sanders. "Too damn many. You might want to google yourself, Graham."

"I wasn't in the paper," is all he says.

"No, but you were in _both_ of Lounds' articles," Sanders hisses. 

"Lounds?" Will has a computer, sure, but he gets the paper, so he reads the news there.

"Freddie Lounds. She's TattleCrime, and you're her new favorite muse. Her rabid pack of readers have been calling for hours. I've gotten calls from Chicago," Sanders says. " _Chicago_."

He knew about TattleCrime. Some of the officers at the station read the site and talked about it when they were trying to avoid paperwork. So much of it was sensationalized, of course, but the articles often came with pictures you wouldn't see anywhere else. It was the stuff most papers were too respectable to publish. "About what?" he grunts out.

"Budge, Roper, you," Sanders says. "Mostly you, Graham. Your past. People have been asking me all day why you haven't been promoted to detective. New Orleans PD is getting it, too."

 _What?_ He scrunched his eyes closed until he saw colors, because hadn't he come to Baltimore to escape all of that? It was manageable with Lou there, but once Lou was gone --

He clenched his jaw to keep from screaming.

"Graham? Graham, I can hear you breathing over there, so I'm going to keep talking. Look, it's already been determined. We can swing this in our favor, but only if you get the promotion."

"What about Roper?"

"I've already talked to him."

"I don't _want_ to be a detective. I stopped being one years ago."

"Yeah, well, the city doesn't give a shit. I'm being pushed to make you detective, and you're qualified, so I don't have a problem with it. I respected your wishes before, but now the entire goddamned country seems to know it's a waste to have you as a regular officer. If you're still worried, go see Roper. Talk it over with him. I'll see you in a few days, Graham."

 

It's a puzzle.

Dr. Hannibal Lecter is a puzzle that Will wants to solve, and he's not sure which part is more intriguing. As a detective, it was (and will be) his job to solve cases. None of them were so tempting.

What he knew about the psychiatrist could fit on a sticky note. 

1\. His name, home and work addresses, phone number (both work from the website he'd pulled and personal from the doctor himself to set up for dinner)

2\. He isn't easily shaken, even if confronted by a murderer.

3\. He is genuinely interested in having Will over for dinner.

4\. Which implied he can cook (because the doctor doesn't seem like the type to order food out).

5\. He knew Will was in the waiting room before the door was kicked down.

Budge was closest to the door and should have heard Will coming if his footsteps were loud enough to alert someone. There were no loud creaks in the building as he came in, and there were no windows to the waiting room from the office, so Dr. Lecter could not have actually seen him coming. The problem is that even with his empathy, he has no idea what to make of it all.

Dinner isn't for a few days.

 

So he goes to see Greg. 

"Yeah, Sanders filled me in earlier. I think it's great," Greg says.

"Great," Will murmurs. He couldn't blame the man if he doesn't want Will as a partner anymore.

"You'd have to get used to another partner anyway. I'm quitting. Got a possible job lined up, too. Similar but with less risk."

"Security?" 

"Yeah. Guard duty."

They both know Will's shit at small talk, so the conversation ends there, and right after he's darting out into the hallway and straight into the path of a red-haired woman.

 

"Mr. Graham, _just_ who I wanted to see," she says smoothly, her grin all sharp angles and edges.

"Do I know you?" he bites out. Nothing about her face is familiar, but the ache growing at his temples is a sign of the truth he's trying to ignore. 

"Freddie Lounds," she says coyly. "Talk with me for a few minutes?"

Grimacing, he tries to keep calm, to keep from shoving her aside, not because she's a woman and not because he thinks she can't protect herself -- he'd be surprised if there isn't at least a can of mace in her purse, probably a tazer, too -- but because he doesn't want to give her anything for an article. "No comment," he says through clenched teeth.

"Just a minute, Mr. Graham," she says. "A minute's all I need." 

He's not so successful.

"Get out of the way, Lounds," he hisses because he needs to get _out_ , and when she grins up at him and tilts her head a little, he puts a hand on her shoulder, briskly pushing her to the side as he goes down the hall. 

 

The newest article on TattleCrime is _Will Graham: The True Story_ , a horribly clichéd title yet eye-catching enough (according to the ridiculous number of hits it has after being up for less than twenty-four hours).

He doesn't click on the link, because he doesn't want to know.

 

After that he pretty much barricades himself in the apartment, only leaving to take the dogs out for short walks and grab the mail, which doesn't stop Freddie Lounds from trying. His voicemail is full of her messages. His email inbox, too. She even shows up at the door enough times to piss off his neighbors, and when she casually joins him and the dogs during an evening walk, she pisses off the dogs, too. (Winston tries to take a bite out of her expensive jacket, Buster slobbers on her heels, and Will makes sure to give them extra treats when they get back to the apartment.)

Her persistence almost earns his respect, but focused on him, it only irritates.

 

It takes an hour and six minutes to lose her on Thursday before dinner. No doubt, Dr. Lecter would be uncomfortable with someone sneaking around his house to take pictures of Will, so he does make the effort to leave very early despite living in the same city and manages to be done with Lounds earlier than he expected, leaving him with just enough time to pick up a bottle of whiskey. If the doctor drinks such a cheap whiskey (though it isn't as cheap as he normally buys), he'll quit his job and move to Florida, but it's the thought that counts, right? 

He groans. His suit is cheap and old, his gift is cheap, and the houses in Dr. Lecter's neighborhood likely cost more than he's earned in all of his years as a cop. It's going to have to do. He just hopes the effort is enough to make up for not mentioning his curly-haired stalker in advance. 

 

"Ah, Will, you are just on time," Dr. Lecter says pleasantly as he opens the door, apron tied around his waist and sleeve rolled up.

"Dr. Lecter," Will says and nods jerkily. 

"Please, you are my guest. My name is Hannibal."

Another nod. "I wasn't sure -- I brought this," he says, holding out the whiskey. "It's not much, but I figured --" He gestures vaguely as he trails off. 

The doctor tilts his head. "Thank you, Will."

"You're welcome." Shifting in the doorway, he adds, "Hannibal" after a pause. 

It's a good move, because the man smiles at him and offers to take his coat. "Dinner will be ready very shortly, if you don't mind the wait."

 

Ushering Will into the dining room, Hannibal is in his element. This is his game, and although his opponent keeps trying to change the rules, he's ready for all of it. It is for this reason that he's amused by the whiskey rather than appalled by its low quality.

By following formalities, Will is only pulling him _closer_. 

The white, sharp teeth of his smile are reflected back at him as he pulls the plates out from the oven where he left them to stay warm. Quick work with a set of tongs has the rest of the meal plated. He swipes a corner of his apron along the edges of the plates before putting it aside and moving to the dining room.

The plates smell wonderful to him -- beautiful flavors worked from an old recipe that will be Will's perfect introduction and his own perfect next move.

 

When he enters the dining room, Will is still standing, staring at a painting on the wall.

"Do you enjoy art, Will?" he says, gently placing the dishes down.

"Not really," the other man says abruptly. He's aware of his own social problems, however. "It's... Leda and the Swan. Not something I would put in a dining room."

"Beauty comes in many forms. Please take a seat."

Will nods, glancing at the plates. "What is it?"

"I'm glad you asked. Tonight I have prepared _Boudin Noir Aux Pommes_ \-- a French blood sausage on a bed of potatoes and onions with parsnips and caramelized apples. I hope you are not a vegetarian," he replys with a small chuckle. 

Although it doesn't pull a real smile out of him, the corners of Will's mouth quirk up. "No, but I, uh, haven't had blood sausage in a long time." Not since New Orleans, and even then, it wasn't something he ate often.

"Then I hope it is to your liking."

It is, despite being nothing like his usual dinners (he has a feeling nothing Hannibal eats resembles his usual dinners), and he makes sure to mention it. 

"Thank you, Will. It is the least I could do to repay you. Franklyn and I owe your our lives." _Franklyn,_ Hannibal thinks sourly, _is a very lucky man._

"I was just doing my job," Will says and not in the way that some people talk when they want to appear humble. 

No, his tone is genuinely humble and more than a little frustrated, as if he's had to say it before. Hannibal makes a note of it.

"Your job is to save others, and you are rather good at it," he says neutrally, taking a bite of blood sausage and apple. A pleased noise escapes him at the taste. "Do you enjoy what you do?"

Will stops eating. "Do I enjoy killing people?"

"You have killed on the job before."

"Yes, I have. Dr. Lecter, are you psychoanalyzing me?" he asks, his voice just as neutral. The whiteness of his knuckles give away his mood. "You won't like me when I'm psychoanalyzed."

"I'm sorry, Will. Observing is what I do. I can't shut mine off any more than you can shut yours off."

"Mine?"

"Your empathy," Hannibal says, watching Will.

"Didn't take you very long to figure that out." With a bitter laugh, Will puts down his silverware, puts his napkin on the table. This dinner wasn't supposed to be anything but a break from the week, but he knows that was stupid of him to think; Dr. Lecter is a psychiatrist, and Will has never had anything but bad luck with psychiatrists. "Was it something about the way I walk, or did you read Freddie Lounds' _biography_ on me?" he says sharply.

"Please, stay. I would apologize for my analytical ambush, but I know I will soon be apologizing again and you'll tire of that eventually so I have to consider using apologies sparingly."

"You didn't answer my question, Dr. Lecter."

Hannibal takes a sip of his wine before nodding. "I read the first of Ms. Lounds' articles -- the piece on what happened in my office. Mankind is quite a curious species, are we not? I have refrained from reading the rest to respect your privacy."

After a moment, Will bites out a "Thank you." 

"Think nothing of it. I imagine Ms. Lounds has been as persistent with you as she has with myself."

"She tried to follow me here," he admits, reaching for his fork again.

"Her stubbornness is almost admirable."

Will doesn't smile. "Her stubbornness has affected my job." Downing his glass of wine, he moves on. "Her readers kept calling, and I've been promoted."

"Congratulations, Will. Had I known, I would have prepared a more fitting meal."

"I don't need a celebration."

"Do you not feel you have earned it?" Hannibal is careful not to stare at him when he says it, because it didn't take much to figure out that Will will give more if not pressed.

"I chose not to be a detective when I moved to Baltimore," he finally says, not looking at Hannibal but still very aware of him. It's an opening, a test.

The last bite of his meal is gone, and Hannibal sets his fork and knife down. "If you would allow me to, I would like to prepare you a meal to celebrate. I will not press you to talk about things you do not want to discuss, but I believe it is a cause for celebration."

"We're not friends."

"No, but we could be, Will. Would you be interested in dessert?"

 

By the end of the night, Will finds himself agreeing to another dinner despite his mixed feelings on the _promotion, Hannibal, everything_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Originally I was going to have Will talk about his past during the dinner, but it just didn't want to be written, which is why the title is misleading (whoops). It should be in the next chapter or the chapter after that, though. Also, we're gearing up for more interaction between Will and Hannibal soon! Just had to lay the groundwork first.
> 
> (I'm still in the middle of midterms, so again, not sure when the next chapter will be out.)


	5. Local Hero Promoted

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He gets a fancy new badge, a clap on the back, and a few nods. The badge, slipped over his head on a chain, is a heavy weight that he can almost feel dragging his neck down, slumping his back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Will-centric chapter, but next chapter should have more scenes with Hannibal as well.

He gets a fancy new badge, a clap on the back, and a few nods. The badge, slipped over his head on a chain, is a heavy weight that he can almost feel dragging his neck down, slumping his back.

Choking him.

His uniform ( _his armor_ ) is gone. In its place is a simple outfit: a crisp button-up, trousers, and a jacket, all of which he got off a rack at the mall. They fit just fine, and there's enough room in them to move fast if he needs to, but an image rises to his mind unasked -- an image of Hannibal Lecter in his suit at his dinner for Will, a suit that was no doubt tailored to fit him precisely. A suit that came with all the color-coordinated extras; a tie, a pocket square, a vest. Will's attire is nothing like it. If anything it's a sad half-assed imitation, but the worst part is that he knows his father would grimace at it all the same. The Grahams worked with their hands, not their appearances.

" _Smile_ , Graham. Or I'll cut your pay," the Chief mutters as they pose for pictures with strained expressions.

"And here I thought you paid me to solve crimes," he replies, tugging at the chain around his neck with hands calloused from guns, from boat motors, from hard work. Dressed up or not, he's still a Graham. He's still nothing like Hannibal Lecter.

(What does the man _want_ with him?)

The camera guy flicks through the shots on his camera screen, nodding to himself. "I'd like a couple of singles of Detective Graham, but otherwise we should be done here."

"Good," Sanders says. His relief is a bit refreshing for Will, but it just ghosts across his shoulders and refuses to settle. "I've got paperwork to slug through. Graham, listen to the man, will you? Report to me when you're done."

"Sure, Chief," Will says flatly and turns to the camera guy. "How do you want to do this?"

He's tired of being a detective, of all the publicity that comes with having taken down Budge and being promoted for it, and he hasn't even met his new partner yet. It's not going to be a good day. In fact, for what is nowhere near the first time, he finds himself wondering why he isn't fixing boat motors. He'd rather be helping people and using his abilities for something, sure, and working his father's trade has never been his favorite activity, but a part of him yearns for it. For the smell of grease, the mindless work, the feeling of being grounded in something concrete and familiar. It's cliché, of course, but it also makes him feel closer to his father. His father was the only constant in his life for years, and with this life he's leading is curving in all sorts of directions, he's reminded of those rides at fairs where you get whipped in one direction only to get jerked back in the other, banging into the walls of the sides of the seat until you get off, bruised and wobbly.

Tyler Morgan.

_Bang._

Lou's death.

_Bang._

Baltimore. _Bang._

Budge. _Bang._ Hannibal Lecter. _Bang._ Detective. _Bang._

He's confused and bruised and not sure what's coming next.

 

"Graham, reporting," he says dryly when he walks into the Chief's office.

"Took you long enough," Sanders mutters, setting aside some papers. "Your new partner will be Melissa Canton. You have the desk next to hers, so you'll find her easy. Don't worry about her, she's been around long enough to know how it works. She won't need any babying."

"That all, Chief?"

The Chief glares at him. "Don't alienate this one, too, okay, Graham? She'll bring you up to date on your first case."

The number of actual friends he has in the Baltimore PD is zero. He has a few back in New Orleans, but he can't quite go out for a beer with any of them after a long shift (not that he used to do that with any of them except Lou, anyway). If Budge got to him first, there would have been no one in the city around to mourn him, no one to cry as they filled the hole back up with dirt, and although almost losing Roper hasn't suddenly made him desperate enough to befriend the entire station, he's more aware of his position than ever. Will Graham is a loner. Always has been, if he's being honest. After Lou, he doesn't want to get close again, doesn't want to experience having those close to him ripped away so suddenly again, but Budge taught him one important lesson: _it doesn't fucking matter._ It doesn't fucking matter that he had never called Roper by his first name prior to what happened in the music shop, not even in his head. It doesn't fucking matter that he turned down every single invitation to go for a drink or eat with Roper's family. It doesn't fucking matter that he closed himself off to everyone and everything in Baltimore.

He still almost lost his partner. He still felt that loss, that _anger._

Will knows he's stubborn, but he's not going to make the same shit decision this time. Whatever sort of relationship develops between him and his new partner - professional or friendly - won't be hindered (by him, at least).

Gritting his teeth, he gives the Chief a nod before turning and dragging himself out of the office. It's time to meet Detective Canton.

 

She takes one look at him and groans. "Well hello to you, Ms. Sunshine."

"It's my pleasure," he says dryly.

"Look, I don't care how many birds took a shit on your car this morning, Detective Graham, but the attitude isn't going to affect your work. _Our_ work."

"Noted," he says. She doesn't give him enough time to say anything else.

"And I don't care how popular you are right now, okay? This is homicide, not reality TV."

"I'm a professional," he bites out, rubbing his temples.

"I know, I know," she says and guilt creases at the corners of her mouth. It creases his, too, like a cycle of discomfort feeding through them both. "I'm Melissa, by the way. No nicknames unless we become friends."

"Not an issue,” he says. After a silent moment he adds, “Will."

At least he’s trying. 

 

Thankfully, despite being young and still much newer to the job than Will is, Melissa is highly professional. She’s still a person, so he still gets feelings from her of course, but they don’t overwhelm him. It’s pleasant. (Pleasant enough. He still misses Roper’s understanding, his willingness to ignore his awkwardness.)

The case itself is nothing particularly hard or daunting, nothing for him to bother diving into the water for. It’s not even what he spends his time simply thinking about. Melissa, he can tell, is proud of her achievements in a male-dominated field but knows that it will never be enough, knows that she’ll have to continually strive to prove her worth, knows that Will might get the credit for some of her work simply because he is man with experience and pictures (no matter how reluctant) in the papers. This was _her_ case first. She wants it to stay her case, if only to prove to him that he can trust her with the work. He’s all too content to let her have it. At the base of it all, Will does not want this case, but Melissa does.

Will has other puzzles to solve. 

 

Not that he has much to go on. Hannibal Lecter has been in the newspapers numerous times, but he is merely a face in the background of a photo, a name in a caption, a body in the crowd of the affluent members of Baltimore society who go to the opera and own multi-level houses that don’t touch those of their neighbors’. He has no criminal record. Not even a parking ticket. His hospital record is clean as well, marked with the occasional death of a patient, but really, his statistics are quite good for a surgeon. The switch from surgeon to psychiatrist is seamless, unexplained, and without any mishaps.

Why would such a skilled doctor (with absolutely _no_ instances of malpractice on record) leave his job?

There are a million reasons why _anyone_ does _anything_ , but it bothers Will that the answer isn’t obvious this time. It couldn't be that the man was bad under pressure - his record as well as his reactions during the Budge incident prove that he’s great under pressure, actually - or that his hands were failing him, because those hands were perfectly still and steady while they stitched him up with a familiar, smooth, repetitive motion. Those hands were surgeon hands; that Will knew immediately. 

For all Will knows, Hannibal’s reason could simply be that he wanted a change. 

Nevertheless, his practice is doing just as well as his surgical career. Every single review is full of praise. _Dr. Lecter helped me overcome my fears. Dr. Lecter is the reason my son is leading a normal life. Dr. Lecter changed my life._ Even the patient Will met, Franklyn, apparently liked the man enough to practically stalk him around Baltimore society, if his reading of the photograph in the newspaper is correct. (He knows from experience that it probably _is_.)

Hannibal Lecter is too perfect.

Even his house felt fake in a way - too neat and tidy, too well decorated, too much like a museum or a business than an actual home lived in by anyone, even an unattached psychiatrist. Will didn't see a study or a bedroom or even a living room, of course, but the glimpses he’d gotten of the kitchen revealed it to be pristine, even after dinner was cooked in it not an hour before, and the dining room was the fanciest he’d ever set foot in. High society is new to him, but this still feels off.

(Maybe, _just maybe_ , it’s because no one in high society has ever given scruffy, sarcastic Will Graham anything more than a disgusted glance. He’s not willing to dismiss this off feeling, though. He’ll _cling_ to it.)

 

Will Graham is also not stupid.

He knows he has a problem with doctors - specifically doctors that like to mess around with his head, pretending to want to help him, when really they’re only interested in studying him. Those doctors have been the subject of his fear and disgust for many years.

They say that fears are contagious for young children. They’re new to the world, new to everything around them, and they don’t know how to react to things by themselves. But like the saying goes, _monkey see, monkey do_. When a parent freaks out at the sight of a spider crawling across the wall or a clown making balloons at the fair, the child learns that that’s how they’re supposed to react. They’re supposed to be afraid of x and y and z. Will Graham’s father was afraid of doctors. Afraid of doctors _for_ his son.

Since before Will was even in school, his parents knew something was off about him. They fought about bringing him to a doctor, because they were low middle class, and there was no doubt that it would be expensive just to get him diagnosed (whether he actually had anything or not), and getting him treated would be even worse. 

When his mother left, she claimed it was because of the stress.

His father told him she was selfish. Will tried his best to ignore the hole, to ignore the lack of ground beneath his feet as they moved from town to town looking for work. He learned to deal. (Logically, he knows he’s not dealing well with either his empathy or his family issues.) 

Inevitably, his teachers would call in his father to discuss their concerns. Though they never said it at the time, he can practically feel the word ‘autism’ polluting those memories of parent-teacher conferences. His father’s anger is there, too. Anger that comes from fear. Not only would it put them even further in debt, but going to a doctor didn’t guarantee he’d be better, according to his father. They’d want to study him, not cure him.

Will was afraid of doctors before he’d even gotten the chance to meet one.

Afraid enough that he let his father drag him out of the room the minute the doctor suggested another appointment ( _regular_ appointments), afraid enough that he let his father drag him out of the state later that week. The first time he actually spent any substantial time after that with a doctor only served to heighten the fear and anger brewing inside of him.

Instead of a twenty minute visit like the one with his father, that time it was a three month stay. Three months in a hospital with no chance to escape the doctor who was just _oh so fascinated_ by the young cop with encephalitis and a startlingly good sense for people. 

Lou had still been alive then, his partner in homicide and the only one who seemed to understand him and his approach to his empathy. Or at least the one who understood the best. He never pressed him to use it, even coaching him into using it only when he needed to. He did, however, press Will to get off his ass and see a doctor when the symptoms started. Stubborn as he was (as he _is_ ), Will refused at first. The fever was manageable, he thought. The sweating and the nightmares weren’t unusual. The sleepwalking could just be stress. The losing time, however, was scary. So much scarier than going to a doctor was, and after coming back to himself in the middle of a crime scene at eleven in the morning dressed up for the day when he couldn’t even remember waking up that morning? He allowed Lou to drive him to the hospital.

He even cooperated there, despite being terrified of what they would find. Did he have a brain tumor? Some incurable disease? Or was he simply going insane?

Encephalitis, they said. Curable, they said. 

But it was advanced enough that he’d have to stay in the hospital, they said. 

They wouldn’t let him leave. Even Lou had held him back, talked to him, and told him that he’d sleep in the damn bed next to Will if that’s what he had to do to keep him there. Will had survived being stabbed, had missed getting shot, had worked homicide with no big incidents for years, and Lou wasn’t going to stand by while he let a fever kill him because Will was stubborn. Lou was his emergency contact by that point, thankfully, so he was within his rights to make sure Will was fine at the hospital, but even he couldn’t be around all the time. And Will? He didn’t flaunt his empathy, but it was hard to hide it when he was sick. He’d take on the doctors’ and nurses’ speech patterns, he’d be able to tell if they were feeding him bullshit about his progress, he’d be tense whenever Nurse Richards came into his room after an argument with her soon-to-be-ex-husband. 

They still treated him, sure, but they were invasive, _curious_. They wanted to know if he’d always been so good at reading people ( _yes_ ), if he was intentionally mimicking them ( _no_ ), if he could sympathize with people he’d only read about ( _yes_ ), seen on TV ( _yes_ ), or heard about second-hand ( _yes_ ). They wanted to _know._

By the end, he’d practically had to force his way out of the hospital and out of the ‘suggested’ sessions with a psychiatrist to help him ‘deal with his abilities’. He avoided any and all contact with psychiatrists, with doctors in general, and he was successful at it, too, until Lou was gone and the sessions were mandatory and he found himself bursting into a psychiatrist’s office to take down the murderer who had tried to fucking kill his partner ( _again_ ). 

He accepted the dinner invitation ( _twice_ ). He had the doctor’s number, and the doctor had his. They were on a first name basis. Will groans as he thinks about it.

 

The newspaper runs the pictures of him and Sanders the day before his second dinner with Hannibal. The headline simply reads, _Local Hero Promoted._

 

“I saw your picture in the paper,” Hannibal says, hanging Will’s coat up. Will is a few minutes early, so there’s still an apron around his waist as he ushers the new detective into the dining room. “Congratulations.”

“That’s what you said last week,” Will says dryly. “Thank you.”

“Ah, but now you have actually been promoted. Last week was about my gratitude. This week is about your achievement.”

“I didn’t achieve anything. Sanders was pressured into promoting me,” he says, because he’s so _sick_ of people congratulating him for murdering a man.

“Surely he would not have done so if he did not think you were capable.”

Will wanders around the room, looking at the paintings, the candles, everything that he has already seen before. He has nothing to say. He knows he is capable.

“If you would excuse me,” Hannibal says, “dinner will be done in a few minutes, and I must be there to pull it from the oven.”

 

He doesn’t even have the chance to explain whatever the fuck it is on Will’s plate (because it’s definitely not anything he recognizes) before they’re interrupted by a ringing phone. Hannibal apologizes smoothly, but Will sees the shift, sees his mood drop sharply, sees the deep irritation and anger flicker through his eyes as his face blanks for a split second. 

_Curious._

Hannibal does not sit back down once he returns to the table. “I apologize again, Will, for I must cut this evening short. There has been a murder, and Agent Crawford wants my help before the scene is cleared.” 

“No problem,” Will says, pushing his chair out. But it _is_ a problem, for Hannibal at least, and Will can see that all too well in the forced casualness of his stance, in the way he slips an angry hand into his pocket, in the way he deliberately does not look at the food. 

And then those eyes are on him instead, calculating. He meets them head on, because it almost feels _dangerous_ to let this man out of his sight.

“Unless, of course, you would be interested in accompanying me,” Hannibal says smoothly, his tone even and his head tilted. 

Will blinks and grins sharply. “Jack Crawford wouldn’t like that.”

“No, I don’t believe he would. I, however, would much appreciate the comfort of having my own… bodyguard. After the incident with Tobias Budge, it has become clear that I may need one if I intend to continue helping the FBI.” A small smirk of his own is at his lips.

Will chuckles. “And I happen to know where you can get one on short notice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's been about a month since I last updated, but between school and not having an outline for the rest of this, I had quite a hard time writing this one out. I can't say for sure when the next chapter will be up because of that, but I am going to try to write out an outline for at least the next few chapters so that it won't be as hard in the future.
> 
> Also, my finals are coming up really soon. Ugh.

**Author's Note:**

> **Timeline (assuming Hannibal starts the same year s1 aired):**
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> **2002:** Will joins the New Orleans Police Department (Age 24)
> 
> **2004:** Prologue starts here, Will gets stabbed (Age 26)
> 
> **2005:** Will and Lou at the home invasion crime scene (Age 27)
> 
> **2011:** Lou is killed by Jennifer Rooking, Will moves to Baltimore, Miriam Lass disappears (Age 33)
> 
> **2013:** Chapter one will start here with the events of Fromage (Age 35)
> 
> I'm going to try for at least two updates a month, but I can't make any promises. Schoolwork comes first and all that jazz.


End file.
